


Choices, pulls

by winterysomnium



Series: Zombie apocalypse AU [5]
Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Blood, Cannibalism, Longing, M/M, Tim is a man with a plan, Violence, some gore, zombie apocalypse AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-27 21:10:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5064289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterysomnium/pseuds/winterysomnium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a moment they lose them behind the horizon, and when they’re close, closer, too close to the crackling, humming heat, Tim has it. (He has a plan.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Choices, pulls

**Author's Note:**

> Another chapter, hopefully some relationship progress talk will happen next chapter, though this one's hints at feelings too. Hope you will like the story!

Thirty miles in Tim’s asleep, slumped so low he’s barely visible, elbows and wrists bony locks holding onto his smudged, heavy backpack and the deal’s useless like this, this kid is, most vulnerable and Jason could shake his shoulder until he’d startle awake like yesterday, he could wake him with syllables, he could –

(bite a chunk out of his neck and they’d die and wouldn’t die and  – )

but he won’t.

He misses a cluster of signs, crumpled, he avoids a car, detonated, with blood and theft and the cold, cold sickness, speeds up so the periphery blurs, he hums, a radio memory.

He’s driving a friend to school, that friend that sleeps through bombshells breaking and stiff necks and rising rivers, who does homework on their knee, late and crooked but (frustratingly) right, the friend that needs something, anything to consume their life to feel like they’re living it, at all.

( _Are you any of those Tim?_ )

He rubs his thumb against his knuckle.

He hums.

He’s driving a friend to school and the world is alive.

—

Tim wakes and there’s a chunk of scenery missing, fields and grass gone, regrown into trees and wild blueberries, into a quilt made of sun and shades, made of twigs setting patterns, Jason like an element, reshaped, too, a song soaking his mouth, seeping to his throat, just vibrations and closed mouths, songs trapped, really, honestly but somehow, Tim feels at home, feels safe, again, for this moment.

(This moment at least.)

“Do you know London Calling?” he asks instead of  _you let me sleep_  and instead of wonders and why’s and Jason’s not surprised, like he expected him to be awake, like it’s as obvious as a stain on Tim (consciousness), he doesn’t freeze or quiet down, he doesn’t change a thing.

(Pace or sounds or speed. He remains.)

“Dude, who doesn’t know that song? Even my Dad knows that song,” Jason answers, hopes the road stays clean, clear, lonely.

“My didn’t.” Tim shrugs, pulls himself up, scooting higher, the horizon broads. Instead of dizzy, disoriented, he’s good. Grounded. Held by the roots of Jason’s words, muscles, his self. Held by the roots of someone he can trust. (Someone beautiful.)

“He was more of a Beatles and classics guy. Not that London Calling isn’t a classic,” Tim adds and Jason risks a glance (the road, the road), a fleeting memory of vision.  

“He  _is_ , I mean,” Tim corrects, suddenly, stricken, suddenly ashamed (scared). “He’s probably that guy driving everyone crazy by trying to fix a gramophone all day, looking for vinyls.” He laughs, untrue, fiddles with the straps of his bag and Jason realizes it became a part of his gravity, part of a comfort he might not know about, a part of his skeleton, folded, unfolding. Cotton and artificial fabrics.

(Pliant. More space.

Something to breathe through.)

“Gramophones remind me of dance lessons,” Jason answers and remembers, remembers Alfred, remembers polished floors and shoes and ties impossible to tie, tones crackling like wood, stuck in a fireplace, turning to not coal, to ashes, remembers how he stepped on Maddie’s shoe once, left an imprint of pale grey on her ivory shoes and he apologized and she laughed, said it’s okay, said at least it’s not gum in her hair and yeah, he could relate to restoring a gramophone, to restoring music, old school and reminiscent, warm, like burning wood.

He could understand.

“You went?”

“Home schooled. A lot of dances I had to attend. It was a family thing.”

“I went to a lot of conferences, as a kid,” Tim says, carries the conversation, wants for Jason to know this, to share. To push them closer. (To push them while he can. While the magnets are turned.)

“It was a family thing, too. Got lots of free candy out of it and Mom always had to wipe my hands into a handkerchief.” His mouth curls into a smile, into a feeling remembered, faintly, vivid, found. “I also used to sneak out of the conference room and explore and give them premature heart attacks but you know, a whole building full of human skulls and pieces of pottery, perfect place to have an adventure at, right? It was to me at least, at that time. Now it just sounds – haunting, doesn’t it?” he asks but doesn’t let Jason answer, doesn’t think he’d say anything at all, anyway, if he did.

“Funny how I could probably still tell what culture or what place a vase is from but at dancing, I’m completely rubbish. Like, really awful. Embarrassingly so.” Expression wry, Tim turns to Jason, fleetly; Jason reads it through the shift of colours, through the soft sounds of the seat, Tim’s clothes, colliding.

“Both skills are pretty useless to us now, so don’t feel bad about it.” Jason shrugs, slows for a curve carved into the ground, hopes nothing – no one – claws at their tires, nothing besides gravel, lost leaves, pieces of plastic.

(Nothing does.)

Tim touches the radio, presses a button, uselessly, almost longing, almost sad.

“Too bad we can’t play anything; there aren’t any CDs in this car.” He sighs, his fingers brush the button one more time and then they return to his bag, protective.

(Jason wonders if quiet turns him restless, melancholic, if he’s trying to think over it, over the absence of sound. If he’s trying  _not_  to think, most of the days.)

“I had a road mix,” Tim says, guards the side of the road, the hips and hands and limbs of the forest, split by the asphalt, by metallic mouths and loud teeth, by human minds, fragile inside of their skulls. Tim speaks more.

“It annoyed Dad  _so_   _much_  because I used to drive him around a lot and never really changed it, like, for  _years_. I did use to change London Calling to Gotham Calling though. Especially when we were out of town and headed home. Always made him smile,” he says, little ropes of words stringing across the car, curling around the sphere of Jason’s shoulder, his bicep, intertwined between his ribs, spine, hips, Jason doesn’t want to know this about Tim, Tim wonders why he wants him to, so desperately, Jason wonders why he lets him, why he feels like Tim is good enough when everyone was (too) bad, when all he had was distrust, if he decided this the moment he saw him cover the faces of the sick, if he decided the moment he didn’t shoot him, the moment he slept next to his bare (cotton vulnerable) feet.

(When did he decide he was worth the shot?)

He speeds up again, the grass and the petals and the close close limbs of trees move too, sucked in; a pressure builds against Jason’s lungs.

(Might be his resolve, turning to a cavity, might be something – growing. Might just be the undead, rising through.

Might be.

Can’t –  _can’t_  be.)

“My Mom had a whole box full of mix CDs,” he says,  _shares_ , slowly and he’s not – they’re not friends (repeat, repeat). But, thing is – you can tell strangers anything, can’t you?  

“She loved making them, said it was like making a necklace, just made out of little capsules of melodies and songs, instead of pearls. I listened to all of them, all the time.”

(Turns out: you can ( _strangers_ ; repeat).)

“Did she had one for road trips too?” Tim asks, fragile, careful, he never looks at Jason for too long. It’s good. (Better.)

“Yeah. She had three.” And they share, again, a smile, honest and short and good.

“Tell me when you’re tired,” Tim says, adjusting into comforts and better angles, watching out and Jason jokes, weakly, says: “Tell me when something tries to climb into the car and eat us.” but it’s barely halfway funny because someone  _could_  but Tim just –

Tim nods.

And watches out.

—

“Jason  _stop_!” Tim yelps as the world lulls, lurches as Jason says: “I see it,  _fuck_!”,the car still, burning gasoline, burning like the fields under them, the evening sun a dim house of light, the fire a factory, glowy red, ashen darks, acid, sweet scents as the horizon disintegrates, as the fire fills all of the gaps, all of the light, airy miles of herbs and trees, of houses, built small and in between, caved, hollow stars.

All of it turns to smoke as they linger at the drop, the top of the descent, Jason in reverse before Tim can say: “We can’t drive through that.”, Jason already pressing his weight against the seat, “No kidding.” leaving his mouth like an afterthought leading the car but there’s others, silent metal, flat tires and night and –  _people_  behind them, the next turn a mile back and there shouldn’t be a fire but there is, there should be more room but there’s nowhere to change directions and Tim yelps again: “Watch out!” as Jason swerves, counts all of the flowers on the woman’s dress as they drive by her and she’s lead by the sound, by the light and then there’s more, he can’t stay, they have to  _move_ , the car slow, slower, it’s – bad.

“Damnit, hold on,” he says, as they drive faster, stronger, they hit a person, a second scrapes their door, the third stays, Jason can’t see and “Turn around here.” Tim says but it’s a wide gap, too deep, too sharp and if they stay – “If we get stuck we’re dead!” he accelerates, halfway ditches the climbing, scraping mass of teeth and clothes and once human eyes, but they got followed, by the group they tried to lose, the slow, dizzying group they left the road for, went through the field, but here it’s  – “We’re too slow.” Tim swallows as they press against the car, as they smudge fingertips against glass, they have to think, think fast, think the fastest they ever thought –

“We can still go forward, right? The fire is far enough.” Tim asks, cadence fast and Jason nods, forward is the only choice left, air thick, smoke dense as it hangs low, and Tim  _thinks_ , looks for better borders, looks for somewhere to save them but – they have to save themselves now ( _always_ , here).

For a moment they lose them behind the horizon, and when they’re close, closer, too close to the crackling, humming heat, Tim has it. (He has a plan.)

“Stop here. Turn off the engine, turn off the lights. I have an idea.” and he’s already in motion, reaching to the back to steal Jason’s things, he takes a flashlight, takes a hammer, says: “We need a distraction. And considering the situation we’re in, we got  _lucky_.” and he’s there in his seat, checking the horizon as the first shaky shoulders appear and he opens the door, the noise multiplying, unhushed, there’s a distant, phantom feeling of heat. “The horn might still work on one of those cars.” Tim nods towards their still shapes and Jason obeys the order, “I’m going with you,” following Tim but Tim stops, briefly, stops him, rushes out: “You back me up just in case someone is about to make a burger out of me, okay? It’s better if one stays in the car to get us out of here. We just have to be fast.” and then he’s gone, a silhoulette among all the others and Jason curses but stays, holds his gun, higher, Tim turns on the flashlight, a shooting star, a firefly and he’s looking around, looking for – for something, for something to – to hold the horn, Jason realizes, to keep the sound, and it’s smart,  _he’s_  smart, doesn’t burn out with pressure and as he swings, breaking the glass, Jason thinks this is the kind of person he could (easily, very easily) fall in love with (again).

Before. It might have been an option, before.  

Now there’s just California, just the thought of getting there, just the tests and the results.

(This is why they have to survive.)

Tim jams a thick branch between the seat and the wheel, flinches as the sound overpowers all else, turns to the flashlight to direct, in circles, places it behind the window when they see, aiming, bright, runs on memory to Jason, slips in his seat, there’s blood on the hammer, on his sleeves.

(His words get cut off by his lungs running too, running out of air, in gasps, little. He closes the door, swiftly; adrenaline shakes.)

“Someone was in the car,” he says. “The other seat. I – it was quick.” is what he adds and Jason nods, asks: “None is yours?” and Tim shakes his head. “I was careful. Wrapped a shirt around my hand. Geez that horn is loud.”

Loud and efficient and it works, it works as they flicker among the light of the flashlight, visible and not, details of them illuminated, circles of jackets, buttons, pockets, dresses, buckles.

“That’s all of them. Better move before they move  _on_.” and Jason has never driven faster, this desperately, this shaking, before.

(But before, he didn’t have to. Before, choices were his.

Now they’re pushes, violent, dirty, careless. Now, they’re pulls.)

They reverse, they’re tense, they head left, they will have to drive around the fire, they will have to clean the blood from the hammer and Tim’s clothes and get a new flashlight, but they’re  _alive_. (They’re good.)

Tim lets out a sigh, slumps, exhausted, weary. “So much for the easy way, huh?” he quips, everything about him crumpled, tired, beautiful, and Jason has to fight that warm, syrupy feeling of fondness, of safety, of feeling like he could kiss this guy, for an hour (or more).

“Let’s find somewhere to stay for the night. We have to change routes anyway,” he suggests, hiding his smile and they switch after another hour of driving, roam for another half and in two, they’re safely tucked at the top of a tree house, drafty and cold but isolated, “What can’t be said about the cabin, what with no doors or windows, can it?” and it won’t matter, won’t if they have the blankets and if they press their backs together and so they do that, just that.

(It’s not a choice, Jason doesn’t say.)

(It’s a pull.)


End file.
